A Step Back And To The Side
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Drabbles from differing POVs for the Living Despite It All. Must be read to make sense.
1. Chapter 1

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word: **Takes place in Chapter 3 of Living Despite It All. Series will be mostly other POVs or are bits that didn't fit.

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Malik is easy to predict. Her eyes had gained that determination she gets when she decides she's going to do something, and Altair is not surprised to find her up in the tower set aside for training them in Leaps of Faith. She's standing on the edge of the plank hanging out in the open air, and that already puts her ahead of some of the other Novices Altair has watched attempt this for the first time. Few had managed to even get two steps out on it before turning back.

Altair grins as her arms spread out to the side. She's looking straight ahead, gray hood pushed down from the wind that's picking up the longer she just stands there. "Afraid?"

She doesn't jump or startle, doesn't even look back at him as he steps up onto the plank and stops just behind her. A promising sign, Malik just might be the first one of their group to follow him, and the thought of that is oddly pleasing. "I didn't take you for a coward, Malik."

Malik shifts but doesn't step back. She turns then and Altair stares at the wide grin that stretches across her face. Fear the absolute last thing he sees as she laughs right at him. The joy and exhilaration of this, of the jump, lighting her face up in a way that makes Altair's breath catch hard. She's beautiful in that moment, and then she's jumping. Form perfect and fearless as she falls, and Altair doesn't think. Not at all as he follows. Unable to resist.

Years too late he will pinpoint that day as the moment his heart was first taken from him.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word: **Takes place somewhere between Chapter 18 and 20.

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His presence is not expected, no ones is. That is clear from the fact that the grate is latched over the entrance to the Bureau when Altair makes it through the night. The latches are hidden inside, but he knows where they are. All Assassins do so they can let themselves in easily enough if they are not being pursued. They are out of the way and take time to work open. More than enough to alert even the deepest sleeper inside someone is seeking entrance.

Altair crouches over the grate and threads his fingers in for the first latch. His fingers are just brushing it when movement catches his eye in the almost dark courtyard. He leans down to look through the lattice and loses the words he was going to say.

Malik kneels near the fountain, bent over a basin on the floor, and completely bare. Her skin looks paler than it is in the dark. A candle in the other room offering just enough light for him to see the trail of water going down her back from the rag she uses to clean herself. The hard lines of muscle and soft curve of her breasts will never fail to transfix him, but it is not this that freezes Altair.

It is the sight of her left arm, bare and well lit so that he can see the ruins of it. Cut off barely a hand-span below her shoulder, there isn't much of it left. Scars wind down to a smooth looking stump that is contoured deeply with even more scars.

She hisses as the cloth moves to her arm. The sound cutting and painful as she carefully dabs at it. Slowing down the further to the end she gets, until she's simply wringing water out over the very end to run over it with a grimace. Her teeth startlingly white in the dark, because her grimace is more a snarl than anything else.

Altair extracts his fingers from the grate and slowly edges away until he's far enough away to stand without casting a shadow inside. He turns away from certain safety and runs. Feet taking him away almost too easily as he looks for someplace else to sleep for the night. Someplace where his presence won't grate any more than it has to.

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	3. Chapter 3

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word: **Takes place in Chapter 20.

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Altair stares at the woman with Malik's face gathering water up in a basin. She doesn't acknowledge him at all and that prompts him to speak first, "Safety and peace, Dai."

The woman stands and rests the basin against her hip like he's seen women hold children. Her left arm curled around her stomach comfortably, and Altair swears again that he is wrong. That his mind has snapped and he is simply seeing things now.

"I doubt I'll find either of those things here," Malik sneers, and her voice -unmistakable and sharp- does very little to ease his mind. "If you are looking for the Rafiq, he's in his workshop. I am sure you can find your way there without me holding your hand, yes?"

She turns then and moves over to a table. The headscarf reveals Malik's short hair, but even that is not reassuring. The black locks curl around her ears and forehead. Longer than he's ever seen it before. It is Malik, _it is_, but Altair stands there and stares as the clothing peels off and he begins to see the familiar lines of her muscles. Interrupted by straps and buckles that takes his scrambled mind several minutes to figure out. A fake arm strapped over her shoulder securely enough that Malik has to work to ease it off.

When it clatters to the ground with the rest of the clothing Altair feels something panicked in him eases, because now he can look at her. Now he can see _Malik_ instead of things that remind him of her. Even the sight of her left arm, clear in the light of day, does not dim the relief he feels as she washes off the blood he had not noticed. He turns and looks away when she reaches for the robes he is more familiar with, and dresses faster than she undressed.

"What?" Malik growls when she turns around, he sees her point at the clothing on the ground. "Disappointed I changed?"

"No," he says and looks down at the thin cloth and wooden arm with distaste. The image of her wearing all of it still burned in his mind. She seemed comfortable in it though, and Altair wonders how often she wears it. How often she _has_ to wear it. "It doesn't suit you at all."

"Dressing as a woman?" Malik's smile is a trap. There is no answer he can give that will not be leapt on as an offense.

"Yes," Altair cannot help but respond anyway, because none of that suits Malik at all. "You don't belong in that sort of clothing."

Malik laughs. Sharp and bitter and her face flashing through more than he can follow. "Of course, only a true woman should dress that way."

"You are a woman," he says quickly, because there is no doubt of that for all that he's heard some try to say otherwise. "You are just," the clothing should not matter. Malik is Malik no matter what she looks like, but this disguise doesn't do her any justice. It is not what she should be wearing. "You are at your best in armor with a weapon in hand, and-"

Blood on her skin and a fierce joy in her eyes as she throws herself fully into whatever is in front of her. Altair clenches his jaw shut tight on that, because Malik is a Dai and no longer an Assassin. She will never have the chance to do that, to look that way again. And there is no one to blame for that but himself.

Altair really has no right to talk about what suits her anymore, not when he took it from her. He bows his head and takes a carefully even breath, "I waste your time, and other's. I'll talk to the Rafiq about my mission."

Malik says nothing as he turns and leaves. Guilt a familiar weight as he hoists himself up to the roof.

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	4. Chapter 4

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word: **Referenced in Chapter 31.

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"Who is she?" Maria eventually asks and Altair thinks about playing dumb, but Maria is laid out below him. Her dark eyes looking up at him, calloused hands on his face, and a threat to harm him lurking in every line of her body. She is beautiful and breathtaking, but it is not her that he sees when he looks down and she knows it.

"No one whose name you need to know," Altair is starting to trust this woman, and she him. Her eyes are being opened slowly to the deceit of those she once claimed to be loyal to. He doubts she will ever come fully around to the way of the Brotherhood's thinking, but he believes she will be a powerful ally to have.

He does not yet trust her with the names of his Brothers beyond what she needs to know, and definitely not with Malik's.

Maria grins. "I was told that once before, by a one armed woman of your people. Ah," she sounds smug now as her eyes flicker across his face reading him all too easily. "Her then. I should feel disappointed, but your woman nearly had the best of me in Jerusalem."

Altair frowns because this is a tale he has not heard of. Maria pulls back, rolling out from under him and fussing with her armor and clothing. Righting something that he does not see. Her gaze when she looks at him sidelong is dark in a different way, "Does she know you chase other women like this?"

"Yes," Altair smiles, a grim amusement as he thinks that Malik always seems to find him out the moment he takes a woman to bed. Much to her consternation, and complete apathy. "My sleeping habits are not something she concerns herself with."

"It's like that is it?" Maria asks thoughtfully as she twists a ring on her fingers. The metal not brilliant, but obviously precious to her all the same. Maria shakes her head and climbs up to her feet with a sigh. "Hm, pity, I think we could have had great fun."

They could have, Altair thinks with no small amount of regret, but Maria is far to similar to what he wants for it to be fair. Altair knows himself well, and knew he would not have been able to see Maria the moment her sword calloused hands touched him. "It would not have been fair to either of us."

"Perhaps, but there is not much in life that is fair, Altair," Maria says as she walks away.

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	5. Chapter 5

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word:** In Chapter 10.

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Malik kisses the woman easily and with no sign of hesitation. Altair knows already this is not the first time she has done this with a woman. The one in Masyaf, one of Aban's family, is very indiscreet. This is simply the first he's seen of it.

Aban makes a faint, appreciative noise, and Altair has to clench his hands into fists to keep from shoving him down into the alley below. To keep himself from falling down there and get between Malik and the woman who isn't even struggling anymore. Just tilting her head back and allowing Malik to kiss her. One hand clutching Malik's shoulder for support.

Altair does not make a habit of discussing sex with too many people, but overhearing is unavoidable. He knows there are many who would find the sight of two women like this alluring. It's not often discussed but when it is it takes the air of myth. Seeing this though does nothing but stir up the same resentment that he feels every time he thinks of the lovers Malik might have. The same urge to _find_ each one and figure out _what_ she sees in them. What draws her to them.

"Do you prefer women?" The question is stupid, Altair knows that even as it leaves his mouth. He can feel the glare against the side of his face. "I overheard you with Aban's sister once. She seemed-" Altair drags his eyes down to look at Malik and she looks as mulish as he expected, though the expression fades to resignation.

"Angry?" Malik closes her eyes and looks unaccountably weary even given the late hour and distance run. "Hm, that will end. Sooner rather than later, she is getting too demanding and the Order comes first. She cannot understand that."

"She told you to leave it," Altair says, the woman's demands still ring in his ears. Unreasonable and strident as she looked at Malik as if she had any sort of right to even _ask_ that of her. "Doesn't she understand anything?"

"No, I don't think she does," Malik sounds amused now as well. She waves one hand through the air, short and abrupt to clear the air of the words. "It doesn't matter. I don't have the time to spend with her like I used to. It's probably for the best to move on."

Altair feels a fierce gladness hearing that, but the kiss in the alley sticks in his mind. "To another woman?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps a man," Malik makes a thoughtful noise even as Altair feels something sink in him. "Both have their advantages and disadvantages."

It is bad enough thinking of Malik laying with women, but men as well? Altair closes his eyes and wonders why he allows himself to get this tangled up in what Malik favors. Again and again despite how very little of what she does favor seems to coincide in him. "What would those be?"

"To which?" Malik asks with obvious reluctance. "Altair, what I tell you would only apply to me, as myself and as a woman. There is very little of it that would even apply to you. It may be-"

"Tell me!" Altair cut in quickly, because that is exactly what he wants. "Tell me what those advantages and disadvantages are to you, for both, and let _me_ decide how they might apply."

"Women know best how to touch," Malik says with great reluctance, but her strange honesty when it comes to talking of sex wins through. "They have the same parts, and the experience shows in the pressure of their fingers. They know all the sensitive spots and how long it takes to become aroused. Much longer than men if you were wondering."

He hadn't, the women he's taken have never seemed uninterested when they allow him to touch them. Never taken much to finish. "I don't have to guide them as much, though they will take instruction without fuss. Women are passive though, they may take the lead a bit, but will eventually stop, and they do get irrationally attached. At least that's been my experience so far."

Aban's sister. Her hissed demands that did not care that anyone could have been near to hear them, and draw the obvious conclusion Altair had.

"Men are firmer," Malik continues after a brief pause, "because they don't know how sensitive the flesh they touch is, and that's not an entirely bad thing all the time. They also tend to bruise less, so I don't need to be overly worried about my strength. They are straightforward in their wants and don't force you to guess. If a man wants something he'll say it, and the honesty is something I appreciate. However they also tend to make a big deal out of me doing the same to them," Altair can hear the frown at the double standard. "Their pride tends to make them resent it when I try to instruct them."

It's clear that Malik has had better experiences with women than men. That her male lovers had no idea what they had access to, and Altair scoffs at their idiocy. Though Malik takes the sound the wrong way. "Oh? Like you have anything to mock, Altair. I've yet to see you take an order with any kind of grace."

"Orders are different, and don't apply to sex," Altair rolls to his side, putting his back to her and settling in. To sleep, because thinking overly much on Malik's words now is not a good idea wit the little privacy in the Bureau. "Requests are something I would gladly comply with."

"I'll believe that when I hear it," Malik snorts, and Altair nearly laughs.

"I'd rather show you," he says to the cushion, too low for her to hear, and Altair pushes back against the way his mind wants to imagine that. Not yet, not here.

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	6. Chapter 6

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word:** Ibid.

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Altair does not actually wake up until his forehead bounces off the floor, too used to being kicked out of his bed for the motion of it to register anymore. The stone is rough and cool under his cheek and Altair gives serious thought to falling back asleep. The floor of his own quarters is not the worst place he has ever had to sleep before. The thought of the tongue lashing he'll get for that later makes him sit back up.

Malik's back is to him, the blanket bunches in a way that lets him know she's curled up as much as she can get these days. She appears to be asleep, but he knows better and doesn't bother hiding his irritation at being woken. "What?"

"Fruit," Malik mumbles, voice thick with sleep still and the cushion her face is buried in. "And bread. Dates."

The sun is barely touching the sill of the room and Altair grimaces because it will be an hour yet before the bread Malik prefers for early morning to be ready yet. He says nothing though as he slowly pulls on his clothing. Malik doesn't move in the slightest and Altair aims glare at her back as he lets himself out.

Few of the Order are up as he walks the halls of the citadel. Mostly just the scholars who are more likely to be _still_ awake and not rising early like himself. Any one of them would gladly go to the market for him and secure what Malik has demanded, but Altair only returns their respectful nods with his own. It does the city good to see the Master of the Assassins every so often.

There are two Novices training in the empty arena, and Malik watches them from the shadows of the gateway. It quickly becomes obvious that it's more play than serious practice for the two boys. Their laughter rings out in the early morning. Altair could step in and correct them, but their joy in this is soothing to see. He watches for a while until the shift of the wind brings with it the smell of food.

He gets far too many smiles as he secures the fruit and dates. A white robe at the baker's stall draws him near it despite the lack of baskets of bread waiting to be sold.

"Safety and peace," Aban greets with far too much cheer for a man with the kind of bags under his eyes he's showing. Kadar is limp and peacefully asleep against his chest. The growing child still in a way that Altair knows means he was most likely up all night.

"On you as well," Altair responds automatically as he peers down at the child and the way Aban holds him. It looks careless given how large his hands are and how small the boy still is. "Though it looks like you need more peace than safety."

Aban chuckles lightly, and his smile is wry. "I am told this will pass soon enough, and that sleep will again become a thing I am capable of," the man reaches for something out of sight careful not to disturb his son. He comes up with a small basket of fresh bread. Three different kinds, all the ones that Malik prefers. "My mother thought you would be here early. She insisted my father make these first."

Altair accepts the basket gratefully and leaves the coin he has left for it. It's less than what the amount deserves, but Malik can settle any debt later. _If_ a debt is even owed. "Thank her for me."

"You look in need of some peace yourself," Aban remarks. "Take my advice and grab it while you can."

"If I'm allowed," Altair steps back from the stall. This casual talk from Aban is still something he is growing used to. He has always been a close friend to Malik, and his support of her has always made him cool towards Altair. When he hadn't been outright threatening.

The city and citadel are livelier as he walks back. More people up and seeking the start of their day. Altair increases the speed of his strides to discourage talk until he reaches their rooms. Malik appears not to have moved at all in the time he's been away. He takes the time to undress and kick his boots off before taking the food to the bed.

Malik stirs as his weight shifts her around, and he can see one of her eyes cracking open finally. "Too early."

"Then you shouldn't have kicked me out of bed to bring you food," Altair says, not the least bit impressed with the glare she gives him as both her eyes open. He gets an arm under her and pulls her in close, creating a space to set the basket down in front of her. "There. Fruit, dates, bread. Are you not satisfied?"

Malik picks at the basket with disinterest and Altair snorts as he maneuvers them so that they're both sitting up. Her back to his chest, his right arm curled under hers and across her stomach. The round bulge of it is smooth under his hand, and Altair is content to sit like that. Listening to Malik complain about the tartness of the fruit, and hum approvingly over the bread. The dates she requested are ignored entirely and Altair knows what his morning meal will be now.

Movement under his hand draws his attention and Altair smiles as he feels it repeated with more force.

"I blame you," Malik says abruptly, no doubt feeling his smile against the back of her neck. "He has your horrible habit of waking me far too early in the morning."

Altair laughs and turns his smile into a kiss that Malik refuses to acknowledge. Her attention still on the bread she's demolishing. Her mood will turn as sweet as it ever gets once her hunger is satisfied, and Altair is content to wait as the sun rises and their duties wait for them to attend them.

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	7. Chapter 7

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word:** Chapter 12.

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The second time Altair's heart is taken it is by Adha. The woman grown older and graceful, but with enough of the girl he used to know still in her that he recognizes her immediately. Adha is achingly beautiful, soft, and being hunted by more people than Altair can safetly fight. He hides her for her own safety, and sets out to kill every single one of them with only the taste of her lips on his to spur him on.

He fails, but it's not until he holds her lifeless body in his arms that he realizes how badly he has failed.

The men who took her from him die. One by one they die screaming at his hands until there are no more, but Altair still feels the rage that has fueled his days. Hot and uncaring, and building with no outlet because they are all dead now and Adha will never smile at him again.

Failure is not something he is used to. It burns him up with his anger when he is called back to Masyaf. The Master's consoling words unheard because all Altair can taste is Adha's lips against him. Warm and tasting of a sweet something he still can't identify, or cold and tasting of blood. Altair is never sure which memory is worse.

The questions he gets only fuel his rage. Malik's the worst, because the woman doesn't know when to stop pushing. Because failure stings harsher when she's around him. Reminding him of the first time he lost his heart, and how she never even knew it as she mocks him. Uncaring that he's _grieving_.

The second time Altair falls in love is the last. He swears it.

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	8. Chapter 8

**A Step Back And To The Side  
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**A Word:** Ibid.

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Yamha listens to her parents whisper in the next room. She keeps her eyes closed so that if they look through the open door she appears asleep.

"You do not understand!" Her mother's voice is strained as it always is these days when talking about her. "She is not right, Hamid. You are not here to see it but I do! I see it!"

"It is nothing, Ghadir," her father responds. Laughter hiding in his voice as he calms her mother down. This is a fight they have every time he returns from a trip away. "You have let the gossip of those old women go to your head. There is _nothing_ wrong with our daughter."

Yamha stops listening then and goes to sleep as her mother continues to push her case before her unhearing father.

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There is nothing wrong with Yamha, but there is something very wrong with the rest of the world. The children she is supposed to play with are part of that wrongness, and they can sense that she doesn't belong among them. It's fun to force herself on them at times, but she prefers to be left alone most days.

To wander about the world and explore at her pace and not anyone else's. To take her games to the conclusions she wants and not the ones others expect. Her favorite game is one the other children play. A hiding and hunting game that they end with a touch that leaves Yamha unsatisfied and bored. It's much more fun the way she plays it with the scrawny cats of the city that know to run when they see her. The blood of the ones not good enough sticky between her fingers is the way this game should always end, and Yamha laughs over the fact that the other children don't know how this feels. Their eyes flinching away from her and mouths going tight when they are all force together. A fun reaction that she enjoys seeing.

She does not do it often. Playing alone, with her own rules makes it easier to pretend when she goes home.

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She likes it best when her father is home.

When he comes from far away and smells like dirt and blood. His weapons laid out before him on the floor before them both. He talks as they clean them of every last trace of the deeds he's done while away. He talks about the trip and things he's seen, but never says a word about _what_ he's done. His voice is annoying but it's easy to get him to talk about his weapons instead of traveling. To tell her their use and even show her when she's very, very good.

Yamha is never happier than she is when she's holding a dagger in her hand. Admiring the way her eyes look in the reflective surface, and her fingernails catching on the dried blood she deliberately fails to clean from the hilt.

"You did a poor job cleaning again," her father says with a laugh as he sees the powder coating her fingers. He tries to brush it off but Yamha pulls back and demands to learn how to throw the blade.

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The Assassins live on the tall hill. They dress in white and come and go as they please with weapons hidden all over them. Her father won't let her follow him up, but Yamha is good at waiting. She's too young to be taught their ways yet. Until then she has to pretend and live off of her dreams.

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Her mother understands Yamha best. Father is gone too much, and should listen to her more.

She fears Yamha, and the thought of it makes Yamha smile over the meals the woman cooks. Her eyes never really looking at her, and her questions ignored. It's a fun game to play when she's bored. Ignoring the questions as if they were never spoken only to answer them later.

A few hours, a day, a week. Whenever she feels like it. Sometimes late at night when the woman sleeps, and Yamha's words jolt her out of it. Her eyes staring up at Yamha with fear and confusion before she gathers herself and tries to appear strong in ordering Yamha to bed.

That last one is the best but Yamha saves it for special occasions only.

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The day Yamha learns she will not be allowed to be an Assassin is the worst day of her life. Made worse because it's only that she was born the wrong gender. Assassins cannot be girls.

"Yamha, enough!" Her father yells but her screams are louder and the dagger she took is faster. Blood wells up on his hand. Bright and vivid enough to snare her eyes and make her stop long enough to be caught.

"Let me go!" Yamha kicks and bites but her fury is nothing against the training her father has unfairly received. "I want to go! I'll cut off the parts of me that are woman if I have to. Just let me go!"

Her father doesn't though no matter how she pleads or threatens. He only whispers broken apologies at her being born a daughter as she _screams_ her anger to the world.

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He looks at her differently after that and refuses to let her touch his weapons. Won't even clean them while she's around anymore.

Her mother is pleased by this, and Yamha finds herself hating her. It's _her_ fault Yamha is a woman and the little games she plays aren't enough to stop that hate from growing. Nothing is enough anymore.

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They travel occasionally to Jerusalem to visit family. Her mothers, Yamha thinks but does not care enough to know for sure. She spends the time there up high on the roof watching people below.

She used to imagine watching them from the shadows of a white hood. Picking one and following them. Either from above where they will never know where their death came from, or from the streets where she will allow them glimpses of her. Allow them to know they are being hunted, to build up their fear before they die.

It won't happen now but Yamha watches then anyway and imagines she still can.

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Father leaves them just outside of Masyaf. A group of Assassins pulling him away to a long mission. Yamha doesn't even realize the opportunity for what it is until her body reacts. Her body knowing better than her mind what she wants. Instinct from a thousand dreams making it all effortless.

Her mother's blood is as red as she's imagined. The look of fear as she stares up at the dagger in Yamha's hand sweet. Her life fades almost too fast. Yamha laughs when it's gone. Giddy and delighted by her revenge. She laughs and laughs until she's crying, and that is when she is found. Tears in her eyes, blood all over her, and lies spilling from her lips.

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No one questions her. The lies taken as fact, and some stranger is killed for her deeds. A bloodied feather is given to her and Yamha has a week to laugh until her father returns.

His grief is as sweet as the fear, and blinds him to her again. Yamha smiles as she listens to him grieve.

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The man's name is Faheem and he's only interesting because he allows her to hold his weapons. He's wearing white and talks too much like her father, but he too is easy to distract.

Yamha allows him to touch her, to gift her with uninteresting things, to lay her out on a pallet of hay and take her clothing off. The act is pleasurable enough but not as interesting as he seems to think it is.

Marriage happens almost without her noticing. The home she has lived in is theirs now and Faheem is unwary enough to leave all his weapons out for her hands to touch. Father is uneasy again when he visits and sees but if he says anything Faheem doesn't listen. Her smile is enough to chase the words from the man's mind as she cajoles him to show her how best to hold the short sword she has taken a keen interest in.

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"Yamha what have you done?" Her father's voice is low and shocked.

The dog was a poor substitute for what she did to her mother, but it's blood is just as bright and it's struggles fiercer. Yamha wipes the red off the short sword with even strokes of the rag she brought along. Cleaning until it shines again, but leaving the tacky substance on the hilt to dry.

The dog is unsatisfying, but the look of horror in her father's eyes makes up for it.

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Pregnancy is a shock and unpleasant to an extreme she's never experienced before. Her stomach swells, the smell of food leaves her violently ill, and every part of her aches too much to move. The _thing_ in her grows and drains all her energy. Keeping her bound to her bed and home.

The worst part is the reactions of others though.

Faheem acts as if _he_ has done something worth the praise that rains down from people Yamha has never paid attention to. Strangers reach to touch her swollen body without leave, and stop to give her the most inane advice. Her father delights in it. Forgetting again and only laughing when she snarls and snaps.

Yamha cannot wait to get rid of it.

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It's ugly and loud. Squalling to feed from her breasts with greedy painful sucks. It is also a girl.

A useless thing doomed to the same life she has. If not worse. Yamha looks down on it with disgust when the midwife leaves. It's crying out for something but Yamha feels dirty. She leaves it to cry itself out while she goes to clean up.

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"A son," Faheem is awed when he arrives and holds it. Too stupid to check for himself as he smiles stupidly down at it. The child is quiet finally. Having learned fast the sound gets it nothing from her. Faheem makes ridiculous faces down on the wide eyed thing that stares up at him without a shred of amusement. "What shall we name him?"

Yamha is sick of it already. Her body is recovered and once again hers to command completely. She itches to cover her hands with red again, and after these awful months she's not willing to settle for an animal. She walks up behind him and places one hand on his neck, her other wrapping around the handle of his short sword. Pulling it out without him noticing as he turns that sickening smile on her.

Faheem's look is priceless. The child starts to make noise. Thin and high as his arms tighten reflexively, eyes wide as he stares uncomprehendingly at her hand twisting his own weapon in his stomach. "Yam-"

Faheem's knees give under him and he's mostly silent as he slumps backward. Still holding the child protectively even as she smiles down at him. Watching his blood spread slowly under him, soaking into his once pristine robes. Yamha has spent her life wanting and envying the white robes of the Assassins, but now she finds she doesn't feel so strongly about it anymore. Yamha brushes her fingers in the blood and watches as Faheem dies. Arms loosening on his last breath and the baby sliding down to splash in it as well.

Tiny hands and feet kick and Yamha laughs. Painting a few lines on it's face. Bright and vivid against the dark skin. The image is striking and Yamha feels something warm in her chest as she scoops the girl up. Cooing down into the trusting eyes. "Such a pretty child."

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She knows there are no lies she can tell that will cover this. The Assassins do not scare her, but they are many and she knows staying is not an option. Yamha packs light, taking most of the weapons that have always been hers. The child she bathes and swaddles, leaving the bag at home she makes her first and only trip up the hill. The Assassins don't want to let her in, but a flash of the child is enough to soften them, "My father should meet his grandson."

They let her in, only so far, and her father comes quickly. Nearly running. He's bursting with happiness as he cradles the girl in his arms. Too stupid to check like Faheem and the thought makes her smile. "Faheem will be pleased when he comes back. What is his name?"

Yamha hasn't thought of names, and she picks the first to occur to her as her father gently traces a soft cheek that was so recently covered in Faheem's blood. "Malik, that is his name."

"Malik," her father breathes and brushes a kiss to the girl's sleeping face. "He will grow strong."

"Yes," Yamha agrees and takes the child back. She walks away and laughs softly at the thought of her father's joyful face. At how she regrets she will not be there to see it fall when Faheem's corpse begins to stink. Long after Yamha has left.

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	9. Chapter 9

**A Step Back And To The Side  
**

**A Word**: From Chapter 17.

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The third time Altair loses his heart it's to Malik again, and is twice as painful as any of the other times he's lost it.

Because Malik is standing behind a counter cluttered with maps and ink pots. A scowl on her face, wrath in her eyes, and an empty sleeve where her dominant arm used to be. Venom drips from her lips, and screams vibrate her throat. Held back by that strict self-control that has gotten her so far as she bites off her words into small bolts of rage. Kadar's absence a far larger gap between them than her arm.

It's a harsh slap to the face seeing her again. Far worse than his demotion, the cool treatment from his Brother's, and nothing close to the hissed threats from Aban. It solidifies the fact that Kadar is _dead_, the boy with the light eyes who had always been so very eager to learn everything Altair could teach. Shoves into his face the fact that he's also taken away everything Malik's fought so hard for. The white robes of an Assassin and the freedom to run through the night with only a feather to pull her back to the Order.

Malik won't look at him over a blade again, dark eyes blazing with a challenge and a grin lurking at the corner of her lips. She won't ever stand on the edge of a building again, wind tugging her hood down and a careless laugh ringing through the air. Won't ever be a silent shadow flitting across the roofline beside him again, taking out her own share of sentries and racing to complete the mission before he can.

"You and I are on the same side, Malik," they're all things that he has missed long before his own actions ensured they would never happen again. Things he's starting to realize he has no right to want anymore.

"No, Altair," Malik's voice follows him out, and Altair cannot deny the truth in it, "you have only ever been on your side. No one else's."

Altair marvels that there is anything left of his heart to feel so much pain.

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	10. Chapter 10

**A Step Back and to the Side  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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Hamid is given a feather and a mission after leaving a blood soaked home. He's carried them both for years now. Tucked safely away in a pouch so that when he sees his chance he won't have to delay. He brings it out often as the years go by and looks at his charge. His penance for his role in the whole matter.

The feather is stiff and tattered now. The pure white gone gray with dirt and sweat and too much handling. It has been too long, and not long enough at all when he finally sees the face of his daughter in the crowded streets of Jerusalem. The rumors of her presence turning out to be true.

He follows her slim form. Familiar in a way that makes him ache for his wife, for the woman who had tried so hard to _warn_ him. Whose words he'd ignored beyond her own death and all reason. Faheem paid the price for his willful ignorance, and so to, Hamid fears, did his grandson.

The feather in his pouch is heavy as he leaps across the rooftops. Tailing his target, tailing his _daughter_. Al Mualim's words hang heavy in his mind but Hamid stays his hand. He waits and follows because there's still a _chance_. Slim though it may be, there is still a chance that Malik lives.

Yamha has no child with her as she snakes her way through the streets. Eyes bright with something Hamid knows to be wary of. It's no sure sign that the boy is dead, just that he is not with her. Malik would be old enough by now to be left alone, and Hamid doubts his daughter would care enough to have waited even that long. Truthfully, her madness has shown her much more likely to kill the boy than deal with him at all.

Hamid hopes though. Hopes even though he should not, and follows her closely. Looking for her to lead him to where she is staying. The longer she stalks the streets, her eyes lingering on the weak and slow, the more certain he grows that his hopes are for nothing.

He sees Yamha pick her prey and follow the old man into an alley. Away from the eyes of others and Hamid sees the flash of metal before he's putting on speed. His reluctance nothing in the face of the promise he made at Faheem's grave, that he would not allow her to kill again.

His blade sinks into Yamha's back with a sickening wrench and the tiny gasp of pain she makes feels like a heated dagger sliding into his own flesh. Hamid holds her close as she jerks and struggles. Her lungs filling with the wet sound of blood and death as she manages to turn just enough to see him. Just enough for him to see _her_.

Rage flares hot in the eyes that look so much like Ghadir's that it is like burying her again as he twists the blade. Widening the wound until it feels like his hand is on fire from the heated splash of blood and Yamha goes utterly still. The rage and madness dimming in her eyes, and the wet sound of her breathing stopping abruptly as she slumps in his arms.

Dead with a final rattle, she makes no other sound. No scream or accusation.

He is alone, the old man having moved on with no notion of how close he came to death. Yamha a cooling weight in his arms, lighter than the worn feather he draws through the soaked folds of her robe before placing her on the ground. Curling her on her side and gently closing her empty eyes with a hand that refuses to stop shaking.

Hamid does not permit himself to stay by her side. Does not permit the tears to fall from his eyes, or the anguish pass his lips. He flees the alley and avoids the Bureau. Running for the highest point he can see and throwing himself into climbing it. Getting as high as he can before allowing himself to truly grieve.

For Yamha, Ghadir, Faheem, Malik. For the countless men and women that fell to Yamha's cruel delight. For himself, for the loss of his entire family and the role he played in allowing it to happen.

Hamid grieves as blood dries on his hand.

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End file.
